


The Sky is Black on a Moonless Night

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 23:42:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Arthur’s chest tightens. He digs his fingers into the cold dirt, dislodging it, forcing it under his nails. The air is thick and as loud as his heartbeat. He swears he can feel his fever spike with this quiet confession. Sweat trickles down his neck, soaking beneath the bandage. It stings. It should. He doesn't know who he hates more: himself or their fathers.If Balinor had never left Hunith and instead raised Merlin and his younger siblings in Ealdor with the love of his life. Set just after its discovered that Balinor is a Dragonlord, when Merlin and Arthur set out to ask for his help.Relation is like it is in the show; hinted at, but it could be read either way. ;)





	The Sky is Black on a Moonless Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Please let me know if you like this and/or if I should continue it! I have ideas for the rest of the episode. 
> 
> This is my first attempt at Merlin fanfiction.
> 
> Talk to me in the comments (I'm lonely) or leave kudos! Thanks for reading.

He knew he'd promised Hunith they would come back to Ealdor, and it had tasted like truth on his tongue the moment it left his lips. It tastes bitter, now. It feels like a lie. He doesn't think that fulfilling it like this was what Hunith had in mind. She would be glad to see them, of course, for all of five seconds, until she noticed the looks on their faces. He’s not sure what he’s stepping into, but this isn't a choice.

Arthur hadn't gone to Ealdor since that first time, back when Merlin was only just fitting into his role as Arthur’s manservant. It felt like it was long ago, but, no, it wasn't. Not really. So much had changed in such a short time. How they'd managed to squeeze entire lifetimes in less than a few years, Arthur isn't sure. He supposed it had something to do with Merlin.

  
In truth, he wanted to go, then. He wanted to help save Merlin's village, because people—maybe not his people, but people nonetheless—were in need. They weren't his and he had no right to help them. But they were Merlin's and he had no right to turn his back, either. Not while Merlin stood by his side, determined. Angry. Brave.

He didn't think they were friends then, not quite, but he wanted to help Merlin like one all the same. He'd met Merlin's mother at the castle when she'd firmly asked for the King's help and Arthur decided then that he wanted to meet the rest of them. She had been exactly as he imagined his mother would be, kind and lovely, regal even for a peasant. Before he left for Ealdor, he wondered what her husband, Merlin's father, was like.

  
Bailnor, as it turned out, had a grudge against him because of his father. It wasn't unheard of but that didn't excuse it. It infuriated him, but Arthur tolerated it all the same. He stood alongside Merlin's father as they taught the people of the village how to hold weapons, how to strike, how to defend themselves. And even though Merlin's father—for reasons that confused him at the time—didn’t like Arthur, Merlin's mother loved him, hugged him, thanked him in such a way that Arthur felt his chest tighten and ears redden. He'd promised, when pressured by her expectant stare, to come back when he could. Maybe on a hunting trip, he'd said.

_This feels too much like a hunting trip_ , Arthur thinks. He knows Merlin doesn't want to go to Ealdor with him anymore than the Prince himself wants to. Neither are sure what await them this time.

Merlin's siblings, Wren and Lark, had adored him as well. Lark, young and red faced, covered in dirt from her head to her bare toes, had handed Arthur, Morgana and Gwen blue flowers, the color of her dress. She'd stuck her tongue out at Merlin but handed him a purple one with a giggle that wasn't shy like it was for anyone else there. Wren, too young to fight, with tear marks cutting through the dirt on his face and beaten up, wooden sword gripped tightly in one hand, had thrust it towards Arthur and Balinor both, demanding they teach him. Balinor, in a low voice and soft tone, told him that old, wooden sword just wouldn't do for battle. But his bravery was not to be dismissed, he'd said. At that point, he looked towards Merlin, who smiled and led Wren over to an old, open doored barn. He came back alone. _He's looking after Archimedes,_ he'd said. _He's in charge of protecting him, but no one will look for him in there and if they do, they won't find him._

_“Who's Archimedes?”_ Arthur had asked, wondering idly if Merlin had another sibling or friend he hadn't heard of yet.

Merlin had grinned, promised he'd introduce them properly when the battle was won. But then Will had died, a confession on his tongue, and with Merlin looking tired and red eyed, Arthur had forgotten it. In the face of death, a stranger in a village outside his home Kingdom wasn't important. Neither was magic, he'd decided, biting his tongue, in a Kingdom where it was legal. It felt like treason. It felt like friendship.

It feels much the same, now.

Arthur looks across the campfire, gingerly feeling his chest underneath the bandage. It burns. Each breath in reminds him why they're here. As much as he doesn't want to be, he's angry. He doesn't deserve this. His people don't deserve this.

He presses his fingers deeper into the wound, grinds his teeth and forces himself not to gasp.

_Merlin is one of your people,_ he reminds himself.

He studies his manservant’s face, the shadows from the dark hiding under his cheekbones, joining with the sleepy circles under his eyes, mingling with the deep bruise on his jawline. They creep into his face, disguising him, highlighting and distorting angles with dim fire light and consuming darkness. Merlin looks almost inhuman like this. _The son of a Dragonlord_.

He looks tired. He's brooding, much like Arthur himself. Perhaps he has more of a right to be brooding than Arthur does. He presses on his wound again, breathes in, tells himself he doesn't care.

The silence is deafening.

Arthur clears his throat. Its loud in the quiet of the forest. Merlin startles, flinches like Arthur is going to hit him. Again. He doesn't look up.

Arthur shifts away from the fire, slowly, painfully. A day long ride on their horses did nothing for his chest and shoulder. The fire is hot tonight even from a distance. Sweat trickles down his face, the back of his neck, sliding down the line of his spine. It tickles. He shivers. He hopes he hasn't caught a fever.

It doesn't matter.

The people of Camelot are dying tonight as their prince sits around the campfire, breathing in the smoke and watching as sparks drift away with ash in the wind. He's— _they're_ —alive. They've made it. Others hadn't been so lucky. Innoents have been burned to death by hellfire from the mouth of a beast that can only be tamed by one man—it's a power no one should wield, Arthur thinks. One word, one thought could forever silence a whole village, a whole kingdom. The thought terrifies him. Arthur knows why his father had the Dragons, and thus, the Dragonlords, killed. Power, as does magic, corrupts.

Perhaps they're lucky, he thinks, that his manservant just so happens to be the son of the man who could save them. After having met Balinor, he doubts he would have lent them his help for free, if at all. But he would do it for Merlin.

But that makes it complicated, too. He doesn't know what this makes him to Merlin or vice versa. Arthur's father had tried to kill Merlin's father before Merlin was even born, while Arthur was still just a babe. They were friends, Arthur likes to think, even if he'd never admit it. Now he doesn't know what they are. He can't look at Merlin without envisioning the man's father, powerful, dangerous, with a dislike for Pendragons. He wonders if Merlin sees Uther when he looks at his prince and if so, what else does he see? Hatred? Bloodshed? Does he fear Arthur, now? Should he?

Merlin, while brave, is the most innocent man Arthur has ever met. He hates even going on hunting trips. Like a child, he could find joy in things Arthur had long ago deemed boring, a part of everyday life. If such a powerful, hateful man had spawned his friend, he doesn't want to know how he could be corrupted by the blood in his veins. He doesn't want to think that it is, in any way, possible.

“Did you know?”

Merlin, not taking his eyes off the fire as if in a trance, slowly shakes his head. Arthur huffs. Merlin had tired of saying _no_ after the third time he had asked this question. Arthur isn't the type to repeat himself, but _he has to know._ Merlin is so damn hard to read when he's like this. He wants his friend back. He also wants to punch him again. He wants him to fight back, even though Merlin would never go beyond name calling. He wants him to talk, because he never shuts up until Arthur actually wants him to talk.

But Merlin just sits quietly, staring at the fire as if it could give him answers. Arthur wishes it would.

“How could you _not_ know?” he demands, trying to get a rise out of him. Part of him realizes that Merlin had no logical way of knowing. How could he, when there were no dragons around for him to order? But part of him wonders—after all, it had been shocking to everyone including Arthur that a bloody dragon was attacking. Did it surprise Merlin, too? Will it surprise his father? He doesn't want to think of the implications if it doesn't.

Merlin shrugs. “I was . . . preoccupied,” he says. Arthur doesn't know what that means. He waits for Merlin to continue, but instead his manservant just glances at him before returning his gaze to the flames.

“Do we need to take watch tonight?”

Arthur sighs. He shrugs, realizes he's not getting anywhere.

They're still in Camelot, but on the boarder. However, they're covered fairly well and it’s a dark night. The smoke blends in seamlessly with the night sky, no moon to illuminate it. He doubts any bandits will happen upon their camp and its unlikely for any to come looking for them.

“No,” he says. “We'll be fine tonight. We'll reach Ealdor by mid morning, but its still a long day ahead of us. Best for us both to rest; we can't afford to stay a night in Ealdor.”

Merlin nods, finally looking at him. He looks away quickly, standing up to go lie on his cot. Its still next to Arthur’s own, but he notices that its toe to head, instead of head to head, like they normally do. He grits his teeth. He's _the prince_ , for God's sake!

“Merlin.” His manservant glances back, pausing just before he lowers himself down.  
  
“Yes?”

Arthur turns, biting down a wince, to the side. The fire is no longer on his face, and the breeze feels cold. Its could almost be nice, but instead it's just as uncomfortable. He gestures to the open space just in front of him. Merlin walks up, stands in the space, but doesn't sit until Arthur tells him to. He bites down on how disrespectful it is to stand in front of the prince as he sits on the ground. Propriety has never been a strong suit of Merlin’s, but usually it's with a kind of fondness Arthur isn't used to. Tonight, he can't discern the emotion behind it.

Merlin sits, cross legged in front of him. He stares back at Arthur, not about to look away. He has always been defiantly brave. Arthur wonders if Balinor taught him that, or if, in a different world, he would still be Merlin. He remembers the first day they met-- _You've had your fun, my friend_ —and decides, deliberately, that Merlin is Merlin. There is no other world and no other option.

Arthur studies his face. Its harder to see with the glare of the fire only shining on his left. He can only see half of one side, but the set of his mouth and the lack of emotion in his eyes makes Arthur tighten his fists. Merlin is always disgustingly cheerful and he never once has wanted to see this look about him. He has never wanted Merlin to feel this way, never wanted Merlin to make Arthur feel this way. Everything about this situation weighs on Arthur. He hates both Uther and Balinor at the moment, for putting them in this god forsaken position.

Merlin, of course, doesn't miss the movement of his knuckles or the slight crack of them. His eyes snap to Arthur's hands, then back to his face before he has time to even blink. He's quick and far more intelligent than a peasant has any right to be. Arthur tightens his muscles further before forcing them to relax. It's almost painful. He shouldn't feel guilty.

Slowly, he raises his hand. Merlin tenses but doesn't move away. His eyes harden but he keeps Arthur’s gaze. Cold fingers brush against his face, gently turning it so the other side is glowing in the light. Merlin has to break eye contact with him when he moves. He trails his fingers over the mark he'd left just yesterday.

Arthur has never once apologized to anyone aside from his father in his life. He's never once needed to. No, that's not true, he knows, thinking again of their first meeting and the servant that very well could have been Merlin. But he's never felt the need to.

Merlin has always had a way of gently twisting Arthur's thoughts, his emotions and even actions. He is not the same person he was a few years ago. He can't help but feel that he—and even his citizens—are better off for it. There are no delusions as to who he has to thank for that.

Merlin's voice is rough, quiet; like he doesn't want to speak but it is forcing himself to. “You've never hit me before,” he says.

  
Arthur’s chest tightens. He digs his fingers into the cold dirt, dislodging it, forcing it under his nails. The air is thick and as loud as his heartbeat. He swears he can feel his fever spike with this quiet confession. Sweat trickles down his neck, soaking beneath the bandage. It stings. It should. He doesn't know who he hates more: himself or their fathers.

“I know,” he answers, voice like a peasant in that it is not at all royal. “I'm sorry.” Merlin stiffens under his fingers before slowly relaxing. He hears him let loose a long breath. “I never should have and I intend to never again.”

He hesitates, his fingers withdrawing. Merlin turns to look at him, but Arthur doesn't want him to. He replaces his hand against Merlin's jaw, preventing him from moving further. He stills beneath Arthur's touch.

“If, after this, you wish to surrender your duties, return to Ealdor or stay with Gaius, I won't protest.”

Beneath Arthur's fingers, the skin of Merlin’s face moves, crinkles. There's a grin in his voice when he talks. Arthur hasn't seen him smile in two days. “You really are a prat, aren't you?”

  
Arthur grins in response, muscle memory conditioned to Merlin like no one else. Something lifts from him but he knows he's still weighed down by circumstances. “Says you,” he chides. He feels dizzy.

Merlin turns his face, despite Arthur’s fingers lingering. “I'm the only one brave enough.”

“No one else is foolish enough.” His mouth feels like cotton. “Get me a drink, and go to bed. We can't afford to sleep in, you lazy sod.”

“You like it when I sleep in, because that means you get to sleep in as well.” Merlin gets up, joints creaking as he untangles himself. He hands Arthur a waterskin from his own bedside.

“Princes don't sleep in, _Mer_ lin.” He takes a sip as his manservant lays down, in the correct position this time. It feels like a victory.

“So what does that make you, then?”

Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. He doesn't have a response to that. He thinks that he should.

“Are you coming to bed?”

“Give me a minute,” he says. “I don't tire as easily as you.” He hears Merlin huff and indignantly roll over, tangled in a wool blanket.

For a while, he watches as Merlin's chest rises. His breath slows enough to signal sleep and his leg twitches. Arthur smiles, doesn't recognize how wrong it feels on his face until he thinks of how bad he feels. But no. He deserves this; its not his fault Camelot is under brutal attack and he's doing what he can, however it pains him, to stop the massacre. He can have a quiet moment without the dead haunting his thoughts.

He shifts, taking his physical health into account. Hunith will be able to help—there's no way she's mothered three children without remedies for ills. His chest and shoulder is burning, aching, but part of it feels numb, just on the surface. He's both cold and hot, has sweat and chills. He's dizzy. His heart is loud. His eyelids hurt. But he can make it another day.

Arthur slowly stands, ignoring how his body protests and hobbles weakly over beside Merlin. He lowers himself on the ground, buries himself beneath the covers. He closes his eyes and deliberately does not think of all that has to be done tomorrow. Instead, he thinks of Wren and Lark, who will be excited to see them both. He thinks of who the hell Archimedes is and exactly how Wren, then just barely five, would have defended someone bravely with a cracked, dirty sword probably made of a fallen tree branch. He thinks of Lark braiding flowers into her dark hair, weaving one into Arthur's chainmail and smiling; afterwards, she'd bravely picked up a sword against her mother’s and brother's protests and instead, listened to his—and her father's—instructions. He thinks of Hunith's smile, just like Merlin's, and how he'll probably allow her to hug him and mother him until they have to leave again.

  
He doesn't think of how terrible he feels or how sleep feels heavier tonight, like a veil darker than the moonless sky. He’ll get up tomorrow, with Merlin, and ride to Ealdor, despite his rising fever. He has to. To save Camelot, they haven't got a choice.

 


End file.
